The Phoenix Affair
Page 27
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“Spaniards? What are Spaniards? What are they doing in Paris, and why are they attacking . . .I mean, why would they attempt to break our business deal there? I do not understand, and I am very concerned!”
Jones looked from this transcript to another on his desk, making notes and thinking about the possibilities. This call had been recorded by Paris station only two hours ago, the Paris cellular number the results of Ripley’s activities yesterday. Now, thanks to that call, he also had not one but two cell numbers in Saudi Arabia. A search of NSA’s global listening program led to an earlier call, recorded as a matter of routine and not likely ever to be used for anything before today. Both Saudi cellular lines were now on the full-time watch list at NSA, the translated “product” to be flashed to his desk with the highest priority.
There was no doubt, from what he knew of Phoenix’s capers, that the two Arabic speakers were talking about the mugging he’d engineered in a dark alley north of the Eiffel Tower. Likewise, he had no doubt that if they could, these people intended to eliminate Falcon and his family once they were located. He was less certain, but strongly suspicious, that the Saudi Arabian end had a plan for violent mischief in Dhahran tomorrow night. He looked at the time and did the math: “Well, really only about sixteen hours from now before it’s dark tomorrow, Saudi time,” he said to his empty office. “Add a few hours, figure they want to make the hit around two in the morning the day after, and that makes about twenty hours from now, perhaps a little more.”
A moment more for thought, and he addressed a secure email to Ripley in Paris, with a copy to the embassy communications center so he would get it immediately regardless of where he was.
Ripley,
Two urgent warnings for you, Phoenix, and Falcon:
Cellular intercepts indicate strong likelihood that the Paris cell you have engaged is intent on liquidating Falcon’s contingent as soon as possible. Exercise extreme caution.
New cellular intercept making connection to Saudi cell, same organization probably. I strongly suspect that the Saudi cell intends action against a Falcon-related target in Dhahran area over the night hours tomorrow, Saudi time.
We are standing by to support any operational needs you may identify. Paris station has full text of all intercepts, and I will forward future material as it develops.
Let us know what you need.
Jones
He stabbed the send button and sat back, staring out the window at the full daylight of the fields and the edge of the woods. Something spooked a flock of birds that rose suddenly in a cyclonic spiral a few hundred yards away, and, reaching the level of the tops of the forest canopy, they streamed away southward. It was the inspiration he needed. A few clicks on the browser of his secure computer and he was looking at the very secret roster of agents available to the CIA mission in Saudi Arabia, a mission that had been steadily reinforced since the 9/11 attacks four years earlier. There were enough Operations people in Kingdom now, split between the Embassy in Riyadh and the two Consulates in Jeddah and Dhahran, to open and sustain a small war in a pinch. Well, maybe a very small war. They were there, in fact, for “snatch and grab operations” and for security for the embassies. Still, twelve para-military operators, highly trained, was a very dangerous bunch. He opened another secure email window, consulted the address book and entered the address to the Chief of Station in Riyadh, a man named Scaparatto, whom he did not know. He copied the DDO for effect, and typed:
FLASH FLASH FLASH
Chief Scaparatto,
We have reason to expect an attack tomorrow night Saudi time on a target in Dhahran that is of considerable value to the Agency. We do not yet know the exact location, but I expect to have that in the next few hours.
I suggest you move all available in-Kingdom assets to a secure location in Dhahran tonight, and have them poised for what may be a “hot” snatch and grab operation. The subjects are almost certainly Al-Qaeda, armed and dangerous. Prepare the team accordingly. Detailed instructions to follow.
Jones
“Send”. Another email, addressed to the DDO only:
Sir,
Just emailed Riyadh Station. The target in Dhahran is likely the home, or some other facility, owned by Falcon, Phoenix’s contact in Paris. We have phone intercepts on cell lines ID’ed by Phoenix and Ripley in Paris yesterday, linked to calls today from Saudi to Paris. If we move quickly we may be in position to grab some bad guys in Dhahran tomorrow night.
Jones
Next he worked the browser again to see what Ripley could call on in Paris if he needed muscle: not much, unfortunately. He got up from his chair, paced around the office twice, his hands opening and closing unconsciously as he did so, occasionally pausing to look out the window at the edge of the woods. Anyone watching would probably have described a man that looked like a caged tiger, all nervous energy, alert, intense, ready to spring at some prey just out of reach. He made another circuit around the office, wondering how he could pose the question to the Old Man, but nothing he could come up with seemed likely to work. He sat back down.
But the Boss must have been at his computer. He opened the email addressed to himself and Scaparatto, and Ripley:
FLASH FLASH FLASH
Scaparatto—make it so, stand by for further instructions from Jones.
Jones—pick one guy from Ops here at Langley, once you’ve passed instructions to Riyadh, saddle up for Andrews, my plane will be waiting, you’re going to Paris. Keep Phoenix alive and healthy.
Ripley—terminate Paris cell of these bastards ASAP. Jones enroute with help. Do it as quietly as possible, but get it done.
Anderson
DDO
Jones leapt out of his chair as though he’d just watched Notre Dame score a touchdown, but he managed not to scream. Two emails later he left his office, coat and briefcase in hand, back in the great game at last.
In his corner office, Randall Anderson sat thinking through what was obviously a very interesting situation indeed. There were risks, not least of which was the stink that might rise if any move in Paris were to attract too much attention from the French authorities. But from what he’d seen of Jones’s briefing at ten yesterday, there was something big in the works, something Al-Qaeda intended to do here in the States, probably soon, and he needed to know what, when, and where. He had always been a risk taker, and that was what his boss wanted him to be. Still, there might be noise in Paris today, and he’d need some top cover. He reached for the phone, and twenty minutes later he set it down, bawling through the open door, “Bobbie, call down to those miscreants in the garage and have my car and the detail ready; I’m to see the great man himself at the White House in an hour!”
XI. Paris
General Fahd could not believe what he was hearing. The women were in the next room, obviously upset at how angry he was, but he’d sent them there so that he and his son could be alone. The boy needed discipline, but he was an Arab, and this could not be done in front of women.
Mohammed had slipped out of the hotel. Sent down to the bakery in the lobby for rolls, cheese, juice for an afternoon snack for the family, he’d decided on his own to see some of the town. He was sick of hotels, he’d not been out for two days, and he was old enough, he’d thought. He was fascinated by the sights and sounds of Paris, and by the subway system. He’d simply walked out, boarded the subway with a system map, and decided to find the old hotel—there was no other target he could think of, and he’d wanted to prove he could do something. He’d got there easily, walked inside, had a coke in the lobby, lounged for a few minutes feeling sophisticated, very proud of himself. He was only gone about an hour all told, he did not completely understand why his father was so furious.
“Father,” he said again, standing up, defiant, “I am old enough to look after myself. What does it matter that I took a ride on the subway?”
“Mohammed,” Fahd replied, �
�it is not the ride that’s the problem. The problem is that you were sent to bring food, not to go sightseeing in Paris. And, the bigger problem is that you returned to our old hotel.”
“Why is that a problem Father?” the youth asked, still defiant.
Fahd thought. All right, he said to himself, it is time. “My son,” he began, “The problem is that we are in some danger. There are people here in Paris who may want to harm us, all of us, and also there are people back at home who may try to harm us. I have friends here, that is why we came, and I met them yesterday. I was followed, but my friends took care of that, and we moved so that those people” at this he scowled in disgust “could not find us again. But the old hotel is being watched, and it’s probable that you have led these villains back here. Now you have put your Mother, sister, brother, and you and me in danger again.”
“But, you didn’t tell me that,” Mohammed protested.
“I should not have to tell you everything,” Fahd insisted, becoming even more angry. “It should be enough for you to listen to me and to do as I say. I am your Father. Sometimes I will decide you do not need to know, but I expect you to obey.”
“Well, what if I do not?” asked the boy. “I’m old enough to know things, and if you will not tell me important things then I’ll do as I please. Anyway, I can take care of my Mother,” at this he puffed out his meager chest, “and I have friends in Dhahran who will help me if I call them . . .”
The strike stunned him and he fell to his right knee. “Where did that come from” was all his mind could form as he tried to come back to his senses. It took him nearly a quarter of a minute to be certain that his father had hit him in the side of the head with a closed fist, moving faster than he would ever have thought a man his age could move. His head hurt, his eyes were teary, and he found he could not get up just yet, but his hearing was beginning to work again.
“ . . .and when I say I expect you to obey, you will obey, or God help you my boy. You have no idea what you’re dealing with, none, and these friends of yours are exactly why we had to come here. We are al-Auda, you are al-Auda, and we will not sin against God and His Prophet, Peace be upon Him, by consorting with that kind of scum. They are a perversion, they are not good Muslims, but you are my son, and you WILL BE A GOOD MUSLIM.” He was yelling now, and with the last words he caught himself, abruptly silent. Fahd looked at the boy kneeling on the floor. The eyes were an impenetrable mix of fear, humiliation, sorrow, contrition, defiance. He’d struck his son. “Not good,” he thought, calming down now. “Mohammed,” he said more gently, “these people may want to kill us, all of us, even little Aziz. We must be careful, and you must listen and obey, if only for the sake of your family.”
The boy just sat there, saying nothing, and Fahd could not tell what he might do next. He did know he needed to make a phone call. He reached and ruffled his hair a little, felt the slightest response. “Good,” he thought, “it is a beginning.” He opened the door and slipped into the other room, where he found the cell phone and quickly dialed the number.